The despair in the air rose quickly
The thing that hid slickly
The itsy-bitsy thing that is prickly
The pitter-patter of the rain on my window
The sad, sorrowful gestured innuendo
Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep
My mind has this on repeat
It touches my skin and begins to eat
It looks in my eyes, but can it see?
No lips, eyes, mouth or strength
I can’t tell if it’s short or narrow in length
Does it breathe or have feet
Without it, will my life be incomplete?
I went back under my silk satin sheets
Then it moved and sat near my feet
“Will you cry aloud or speak?”
I said it faint, more so weak
‘Touch it, pick it up, or rub it’
Will it hurt? No… it shouldn’t